Fluffy Larry Oneshots

it's hard when we argue, we're both stubborn I know

Inspired by 'Be My Mistake' by the 1975

don't hate me for this pls, this is not at all fluffy

The room smells like cologne and cigarettes. He's done it again. Louis must already be on a red-eye to London and Harry is crying. How they manage to do this over and over is pretty astounding to Harry. He'll never admit it but it's probably his fault this time. He should have never complained about Louis' tour schedule. He knows how important the tour is to him, it's quite literally his dream come true. He should have never opened his mouth. LA is a place where he's always on the edge of his nerves. 

The third cup of whisky is now burning down his throat, eyes closed. The amount of hurt exuding from his heart made his chest contract and his breaths came in short intervals. A text had been sent to Olivia to come to his hotel room and he knew she was waiting outside right now. He poured out another cup of the liquor, taking it down in one gulp before standing up on unsteady legs. Bambi legs, Louis would call them. 

"Turn off the light, love," he slurs, leaning on the doorframe as she enters the room. "Be my second mistake of the day," he adds as he closes the door. 

"Woah, steady there you catastrophe," she chuckles, most likely a way to lighten the atmosphere. 

"Save all the jokes you're gonna make, Olivia. Fancy a drink?" he asks, stumbling in the dark for a while before falling to the floor beside the cart of alcohol. She sits beside him wordlessly, tucking her legs under herself. 

Hours have passed without a single sound that wasn't the clinking of glass. Olivia tries to pull Harry into her embrace and while anyone in pain would've accepted the offer, Harry did not want to hug. Leaning back, with his back hitting the edge of the bed, he sees the indecipherable patterns that the ceiling fan makes as it slowly spins. With it, his head spins. 

He turns his neck to face Olivia. She looks like just another girl in the dark, sitting beside him as she stares at him with hope in her eyes. He moves closer to kiss her. It doesn't feel like anything he wants to remember. The smell of Olivia's hair reminds him of Louis' delicate feet, he washes them with shampoo. He remembers fondly the day he found out about that. 

He feels himself getting hard and instinctively puts his hand on top of it. Olivia realises and moves his hand and places her hand instead. She unbuttons and then unzips. 

"These are nice, not too tight," she says absentmindedly. 

"Louis bought these for me." He closes his eyes and rests his head on the bed. He feels her stroke him faster now. It doesn't take long for him to come and he sighs as he comes down from his high. 

"Why did you text me then?"

"I got lonely." 

"You shouldn't have called, Harry, we shouldn't speak and you know that," she says softly, cleaning her hand with a tissue she procured from seemingly nowhere. 

"What was I supposed to do then? Sit here, alone and wallow in my own damned misery?" 

"You were supposed to go after him, you were supposed to stop him and you were supposed to tell him that you love him." Harry goes silent. He knows that she is right and he knows what he did is miles different from what he should have done. He looks the other way in frustration. 

"You don't know anything to say that." 

"I know that you look at him like he's the sun and all the other stars." 

"You say utter bullshit sometimes do you know that?" 

"I didn't, tell me I speak bullshit. Tell me that you love me and not him." Harry's heart clenches. "Tell me that I make you hard."

"You do make me hard, Olivia, but he...he makes me weak," he says, eyes watering. He pictures how sickly he must look right now and how Louis would cup his face, wipe away his tears and tell him that it'll all be alright. 

"I'm going now, Harry," she says, getting up and Harry doesn't stop her. It's only normal for her, he offers nothing more but making her feel a part in this dirty lie that they play. 

It's been another some fifty minutes when Harry presses dial on Louis' number. The ringtone, the song 'Already Home', plays faintly outside the door of the hotel room. Harry scrambles to his feet and rushes to open the door. Louis is standing there, with his backpack and eyes so dull Harry could kill himself for being the reason for them losing their shine. He wants to speak but he can't. Louis walks in, past him. 

Harry sits on the bed and Louis climbs into his lap as if it were his seat, as if he never sat anywhere else. Harry, stiff and quiet to the rest of the world, lets Louis run his fingers through his curls and kiss behind his ear like any other love drunk young boy tasting the intoxicating syrup of a love to which none will ever compare. Only to Louis, is he tender and vulnerable. That's why he ends up breaking his heart every other week, true love was meant to hurt like this. 

Louis looks like an angel from the paintings in Italian churches they had visited last summer as he looks at Harry. He looks at him like he will love Harry even if he makes a million of those mistakes and will forgive each of them without a second thought. He looks at him like he will always tenderly hold his heart like its his own and never let it even splinter and Harry knows it to be true. He only relates to those poems about love and not those about longing for love, about it being unattainable or distant, because of the love that Louis gives him to keep so unabashedly. 

"I'm sorry." Harry's voice breaks and Louis shushes him, pressing his lips against his ones and crushing them into wine. The kiss doesn't stop, it's like ambrosia for them. Who has ever stopped drinking if offered the nectar of the gods? 

If y'all need to recover from this trainwreck, I have uploaded 'teacups for the wine' on my account on here so go check that out. It's all pure fluff and love and kinda funny. 'A World Without Augusts' has been uploaded on here too. Thanks xo

- Anna